Broken Men
by melmariesparrow
Summary: John once remembered something that Mycroft had said to him what seemed like an entire lifetime ago. It had been the first time he had ever met Mycroft, or rather the first time Mycroft had ever kidnapped John. He had said 'when you walk with Sherlock, you see a battlefield.' A battlefield indeed.
1. Dreaming of Broken Men

** Hi guys! So this is my first attempt at writing a fanfic...PLEASE leave me some reviews telling me what you liked or what you think I need to change. Just please don't be mean- I will seriously start crying and I am a very unattractive crier~ THANKS**

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John once remembered something that Mycroft had said to him what seemed like an entire lifetime ago. It had been the first time he had ever met mycroft, or rather the first time mycroft had ever kidnapped John. He had said 'when you walk with Sherlock, you see a battlefield.' A battlefield indeed. But while living with Sherlock had been frustrating and trying, even at the best of times, John's life without Sherlock had been nothing but bloody torture. without Sherlock, John was waging a battle every goddamn day of his life trying to keep going.  
There were days, days that were perfectly normal for every other person, that seemed to hit John so hard he was physically unable to move himself and he would lay wherever he was, choking back tears. There were days he felt like giving up on everything, of pulling the trigger and ending the suffering. And there were days where he figured he should just move out of 221 Baker street for good and not look back so he could just move on with his life and try and pick up the shattered pieces.  
He hesitated though on both of those things, in hopes that Sherlock would manage to come back one of these days. That he would just walk back into that sitting room, sprawl himself on the couch and begin whining about being bored. So John stayed, even though he knew it was slowly killing him inside to walk past the stacks of Sherlock' s things lying about. Indeed, he couldn't leave 221 Baker Street even if he wanted to. He had tried once before and had come back to it eventually, for this had truly been the only place that has felt like home in a long time.  
In the months following Sherlock's death, John had not once cried in front of anyone. The day that Sherlock had jumped, John had turned numb as he stood over the fragile and broken body of his best friend, watching the blood pool around his head like a halo. He watched as people gathered around the fallen man and he was pushed away, his heart shattering and shedding itself up inside. He could feel the tears forming but forced them to stop, telling himself that this was neither the time nor the place, and that he could mourn later. At the funeral, he stood to speak as his best friend's coffin was lowered into the ground and again stifled the hot tears that had began to form and were threatening to spill over. That night, he and Mrs. Hudson arrived home in exhaustion, Mrs. Hudson's face tear stained and her eyes red and swollen. Still John did not cry. He waited until she had patted his shoulder and departed to her room before walking slowly and defeatedly up the stairs, paused at Sherlock's door to look at it, and continued on to his room where he shut the door and collapsed fully clothed on his bed. It was then that he allowed himself to cry and pray and scream silently that he had stopped himself from doing. Only then did he allowed himself to grieve and mourn Sherlock.  
The next morning he woke up more exhausted than he had been the night before, and after looking at his pillow, figured that he had spent the majority of the night crying. He sat up, rubbed his face roughly, and stiffly detached himself from the bed. He stumbled to the bathroom, cranked the heat all the way up in the shower, practically ripped his clothes of with shaken hands, and stood under the hot stream of water not moving until the water ran cool. He shut the water off and remained standing there without moving until a violent fit of shivers racked his body and threatened to collapse him to the floor.  
After he was dressed he moved very slowly to the kitchen and prepared his tea. He was sitting at the table clutching his cup before he stood up and grabbed the bottle of brandy on top of the fridge and dumping a large portion into it. He spent the day sitting in his chair in the living room watching the telly until late at night. He shut off the telly and began toward his room before pausing and turning down the stairs. He took a deep breath before pushing open Sherlock's door.  
His eyes adjusted to the darkness in the room and he made his way to the bed. He sat down gingerly, tears welling up in his eyes. He layed down on the pillow and the unmistakable scent of Sherlock stung his nose and pushed him over the edge. He fell asleep with tears streaming down his face, clutching the pillow to him and dreaming of broken men in long jackets and dark red stains.

He began his routine the following morning. Wake up in Sherlock's room, trudge up the stairs, stand in the shower until the hot water ran out, make his tea, and sit in living room watching crap telly until nightfall. Trudge back down the stairs, curl himself up in a little ball and wait for sleep to overtake him. Repeat the following morning.  
This went on for months without anyone knowing the wiser. He rarely left the flat, and when he did it was to run out for something quick. He felt no desire to engage in any smalltalk with Mrs. Hudson, and she looked on with sad and knowing eyes as the man before her was slowly being destroyed by grief and depression. It was her that found John on many occasions passed out on Sherlock's bed, face gaunt and eyes swollen with tears, clutching Sherlock's pillow and crying out in his sleep.  
It was Mrs. Hudson that watched day in and day out as John shrunk into himself and become increasingly small. And it was Mrs. Hudson that with gentle insistence, encouraged John to go back to see Ella his therapist that he had long since stopped going to.  
He attended therapy two times a week, and Ella sat there, trying to look inside John's subconscious. She had already come to the conclusion 20 minutes in to their first session together that John was laden with grief and guilt over Sherlock's death. She could also see that him remaining at 221 Baker Street was doing nothing for him in the sense of recovering. It was her suggestion that he move out, at least for the time being.  
"And how does that make you feel?"  
John thought long and hard about this question. He was silent for almost 10 minutes before he said "I guess I have nothing to lose."  
That weekend he packed his things up, looking round at Sherlock's things gathering dust in the corner of the room. With a sigh, he made his way slowly down the stairs, pausing at Sherlock's door and shutting his eyes before continuing down and out on the street. He had already said his goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson earlier when he told her he was leaving.  
"I'll keep everything nice and ready for you when you return."  
"Thanks , Mrs. Hudson. But I have to tell you, I'm not completely sure I'll be coming back."  
She patted his hand while they say there at her kitchen table drinking tea. She peered at him with aged knowing eyes.  
"It'll still be kept ready for you."


	2. Guarded Thoughts

**For some reason when I type Mrs. Hudson it skips over her name. Just be warned~**

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After John moved out of 221 Baker Street, he bounced around places a while. With his army pension the only financial aid he had to his name, he found himself on the opposite side of town in the slums. He lived there for about a month before Molly, the red head that worked at St. Barts and had always had a crush on Sherlock found out he had moved and demanded him to move in with her. Molly, who had begun dating lestrade a few weeks prior, claimed to John that it was because she was in desperate need of a flatmate. John knew that it was instead Mrs. Hudson who had called Molly and asked her to keep an eye on John.  
John saw the shared looks between the two women when Mrs. Hudson came to visit for dinners on Friday, looks that spelled out concern for the man that was struggling to move on with his life. If asked by John, Molly would deny that John was having a tough time adjusting, but to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson in hushed voices, she would say with a sad voice that there was no progress with him at all. He ultimately blamed himself for Sherlock's death, and she had stumbled upon him a couple times in the darkened living room, tears flowing silently. John seemed to ignore Molly when she walked in during these encounters, and Molly knew better than to bring it up later.  
Everyday Molly watched John sink further into depression, and was at a loss as to how to help him. His twice weekly visits to Ella was essentially a waste of time on everyone's part because John had long since stopped opening up and they essentially sat in silence for an hour.  
On one particular visit, a couple weeks after John had moved in with Molly, Ella brought up 221 Baker Street.  
Tap-Tap-Tap. He sat there in silence, absent-mindedly tapping his fingers while staring out the window. He was concentrating on a playground right outside the therapist's office, watching small children run around the apparatus and chase each other in the sand pits. He saw a group of mothers with strollers sitting around a bench gossiping, not keeping a close enough eye on their children. He watched as a young boy, perhaps 3 years old wandered out of the sand, seeming to chase after a butterfly. The boy stumbled across the grass, fast approaching a thicket of trees, and just before he crossed over into it, a blonde in jeans and bright blue jumper raced over to him. He stopped walking and stayed put until the woman, presumably his mother, reached him and lifted him up in her arms. They stayed put like that for a few seconds, watching the butterfly disappear into the trees before heading back. Long after they left he kept his eyes glued on the spot where the butterfly had disappeared. He couldn't be sure, but it looked as if there was a dark figure there at the opening.  
The figure seemed to stand impeccably still for a moment before turning away and entering the trees. John's eyes widened. The figure bared an uncanny resemblance to Sherlock; John could see the tall, slim, dark headed figure in his mind so clearly. He stopped tapping and shut his eyes as his heart clenched around the name. He would've stayed like that, his eyes shut for an eternity picturing Sherlock had he not heard Ella saying his name sharply. He jolted in his chair.  
"John, is everything alright?"  
"Yeah, everything's fine. I'm doing fine."  
She looked at him with concern and doubt on her face before asking "How's everything at home? I understand you've since moved in with a Molly Hooper."  
John sat quietly for a moment, Sherlock's image still branded in his mind. With a small distant voice he replied "Fine. She's fine. Everything's fine."  
Ella looked at him intensely before asking a question she knew would get more of a response out of him then fine. "Do you miss it? 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson? The cases?" She observed him as the pain flash across his face before adding "Sherlock?"  
He shut his eyes again and balled up his fists. He had to breathe deeply before he could manage to choke out an "I'm okay, I'm fine, I really am."  
At this point, both of them were frustrated; Ella because she couldn't seem to get John to open up and share more than an 'I'm fine' and John because Ella kept trying to make him relive the past when he wanted nothing more than to put it behind him and try to move forward in the life that had been destroyed.  
After a half-hearted goodbye to Ella, John made his way out of the building and stood facing the playground in blinding sunlight. He blinked a few times before slowly making his way across the grass and towards the dark trees that he had seen the figure. He reached the opening and looked down at a pair of footprints in the wet grass...

Sherlock's heart was beating fast in his ears as he hid himself behind a tree. He thought it childish that he should be nervous of nothing more than a toddler running towards him. No, he reminded himself. Not him, the trees. He knew there was nothing to worry about from the boy, but being discovered would be an unnecessary problem, and as of late, he had no patience to deal with it. As of late he had no patience for anything really. For months he had been on the run, careful to distance himself from anyone and everyone that was a hazard to him.

After months away, after countless nights he had been left sleepless, wracked with nightmares of Moriarty dead and himself left broken on the floor, after months of hardly eating and constantly worrying about the people he had left behind to protect, Sherlock Holmes returned home to London. To ensure an end to the terror Moriarty had wreaked, a steep price had been payed by a number of people. Sherlock had left, had jumped to save those he loved most, and from there began his hunt. He knew that only once all of Moriarty's men were found and...for lack of a better term...dealt with, only then could life for him return to normal. But he did it. He crossed oceans, he travelled long distances, did everything necessary until he knew for certain that it was all over and that he could return to London without endangering everyone he even came in contact with. He wanted desperately to catch a cab back to 221B Baker Street, but he knew that there were a few things that had to be taken care of first before he could merge himself back into his old life. The small footsteps stopped in front of the opening and he could hear the boy breathing hard trying to catch his breath. Sherlock shut his eyes and swallowed hard, waiting for the inevitable moment that the boy would discover him standing there and shout out. Although he knew that Moriarty's men had been taken care of completely, he didn't exactly want his presence in London known. There was still the fact that he was technically "dead" to everyone, and his reputation had been dragged through the mud. No. Before he could miraculously be brought back publicly from the dead, he had to repair the damage done to his image. Moriarty had to be revealed as the criminal mastermind that he truly was for everything to work. He opened his eyes at a female voice shouting for the boy. His breathing slowed, almost to a stop as the female voice drew nearer to him. He concentrated on the pattern of his shallow breath as he waited to be discovered... "Sean. Sean! Love what are you doing running away? You nearly gave me a heart attack." The voice stopped a few feet away from him. The small voice of the child replied "Did you see the butterfly Mummy? I was following the butterfly. I wanted to see if he would lead me to a white rabbit with a watch." Sherlock frowned in confusion. What was the child talking about? What rabbit? Since when did rabbits use watches? The woman spoke before he could connect the dots. "Ah I see. Did you want to find the Cheshire Cat too? How about we go back to the sand and have that tea party with the Mad Hatter?" He heard them turn and the boy say "Come on Alice." He peeked from behind the tree to see a small blonde woman in jeans and a hideous blue jumper walking away hand in hand with a small boy. The boy had his free hand up at waist level, almost as if he was holding someone else's hand on the other side. Realization hit him like a ton of bricks. "Ah, the child has an imaginary friend. Alice...the Mad Hatter...the Cheshire Cat. Alice in Wonderland. That explains why he was looking for a white rabbit with a watch." He watched their retreating figures. He hadn't realized he had completely dislodged himself from behind the tree. In fact, he had stepped out into the small clearing. He let the sun hit his face for a moment before he remembered that he MUSN'T be seen. He shrank back into the shadows, silently cursing himself for being careless. If anyone had seen him, if anyone had noticed him...well the results could have been horrible. As it was he was risking too much to be there, but he just had to go. He knew John had been going back to therapy since his jump several months before. Sherlock had to stop and think back as to how long that actually had been. 2 years. He had been gone for 2 years. He looked up at the rows of windows, his heart beginning to ache. "Oh John" he whispered. "I'm so sorry for everything." He knew what he had to do. He had to fix everything. Had to put the pieces back to the way they were before. With a heavy heart, he threw one more glance at the building, almost as if sending a telepathic apology to John, and with his head down, made his way through the dark trees.


	3. Risen From the Dead

Sherlock made sure to keep his head down and stick to the shadows as much as possible as he walked the streets of London. He made sure that his collar was turned up against the wind and covered the lower half of his face with his scarf. His hair had grown a remarkable amount since he had been away, so he was fairly certain he was unrecognizable, but that didn't stop him from stooping his shoulders in an attempt to shrink his tall frame. Had anyone that knew him personally seen him snaking around buildings and peering around corners, they would have laughed at the great Sherlock Holmes' fall from grace.

45 minutes later, Sherlock found himself knocking on Molly's door. He only had to wait a moment before he heard footsteps on the stairs and the door opened a crack. Sherlock moved onto the small thread of light that leaked out from the door and lowered his scarf. Molly's eyes widened and she threw the door open just enough to grab Sherlock's arm and drag him into the small hallway. She shut the door quickly behind them and bolted it before throwing herself on Sherlock in a bone crushing hug.

Normally Sherlock would have stood there unresponsive until she got the hint and let go, but she had done so much for him that he instinctively held on to her. It had been so long since he had been in close contact with another person that he felt strange, almost as if it shouldn't happen. Finally she let go of him and gave him a small smile. "Come on" she said to him. She sat him at the small kitchen table and put the kettle on. Before no time the warmth of the flat got to Sherlock and he took his coat and scarf off, placing them on the table. Molly turned back to the table with two teacups in hand and set one down on front of him before taking the seat directly opposite him. They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sherlock sipping appreciativly. It had been so long, too long really since he had been in an environment calm enough to fully relax and care about being noticed by anyone.

Molly though had a nervous look about her and set her half finished tea on the table. She linked her fingers together and leaned back in her chair, waiting for Sherlock to put his cup down so they could get down to business.

"So are you back for good? Or do you need to go somewhere else?" Sherlock drained the last of his tea before answering "To London yes. But I'm not going back home, at least not yet. I have to stay with Mycroft for a while." The look on Sherlock's face told Molly he was less than ecstatic about that idea. Molly's eyes darted above Sherlock's head to the clock on the wall. She was jumpy because John had been due home a while ago and she hadn't heard from him the entire day. The last thing she needed was for John to walk in while Sherlock was just sitting there...the effects would be disastrous.

Sherlock, though a little rusty from lack of sleep, could see that Molly was extremely nervous and concerned about something. "Oh for God's sake, what's wrong?" She looked up at him, biting her lip. "Well...John was supposed to be home a while ago, but he hasn't showed and hasn't called either. And it's Friday. He's bound to show up soon, and Mrs. Hudson...and I don't think it'd be wise to have them walk in while you're just sitting here."

Sherlock looked down at the table, pain suddenly in his eyes. He had contacted Mycroft last week to inform him that he had taken care of everything and would be on his way back. Mycroft had taken that opportunity to give him a progress report on everyone. Mrs. Hudson had fallen down the stairs and twisted her ankle and was currently on crutches, and John...well John was still suffering horribly. His voice was small as he asked his next question.

"Be honest, how is he?"

Molly's eyes got sad and glassed over as she tried to keep tears from escaping. Her hands clutched he tea cup looking for warmth as she tried to find the words to describe the train wreck of the man that had once been so put together. "I'd like to say he's moving on, but we both know that you know it isn't true." Sherlock didn't respond, made no move to look as if he had even acknowledged her response, but on the inside he had set fire to himself and was burning himself at the stake. Molly continued on despite the fact that Sherlock was tearing himself up inside. "I don't know Sherlock. I don't know how to help him. He's in so much pain, and i'm at such a loss. He's hurting so much and I just can't stop the pain."

Sherlock exhaled slowly, all the breath in his body seeming to leave him as Molly went into detail about how changed John had become. How the light in his eyed had dimmed and finally been extinguished. How he put up a front and refused to cry in front of anyone, but when he was alone, or thought no one could see him he fell to pieces.

"He blames himself you know. For your death. At night I hear him, in his sleep. He talks to himself...but lately he seems to be screaming in his sleep instead. At the beginning I would freak out when I heard his screams and run into the room. But it's been almost a year now and it doesn't surprise me. I'm more worried about when I don't hear a sound out of him. On those nights I lie awake, waiting for the screaming to start and when it doesn't, I hold my breath."

Sherlock put his face in his hands to control the shaking that had somehow started. He couldn't listen to this anymore. He needed to get out and leave, leave until he could fix everything and put it back to the way it was before Moriarty created the mess in the first place. He needed his life back to the way it was, and he needed John back to normal. He didn't want to be the cause of all the pain and suffering that John and Mrs. Hudson and Molly and even Lestrade had to endure.

"I have to leave. Now." He stood up and put his coat on. "I need your phone. I need to call Mycroft to send a car for me." Molly silently pulled her phone out of her pocket and slid it across the table to him. She focused on the pattern of the wooden table while he tapped away on her phone. He sat back down and crossed his arms, making impatient noises until the phone chimed. He snatched it quickly, read the text and made a disgusted face.

"Well, he won't be here for at least another half hour."

Molly looked up at him. "Are you going to leave then or wait?"

"He told me to stay here. He'll text when the car's here and I'll meet it around the corner." They took a few more minutes in uncomfortable silence before Molly cleared her throat and said "So..what do you want to do?"

Sherlock pondered the question. What he wanted to do, what he truly wanted to do was go home. Home to 221B Baker Street. Home to his cases, home to Mrs. Hudson and his skull. But mostly home to John. Since that was out of the question, at least for a little longer while Mycroft was fixing everything, he said the next best thing. "I need a shower. And a change of clothes."

Molly nodded and stood up from the table, leaving their cups there. She walked out of the kitchen, not bothering to inquire if he was following her because she could hear the footfalls behind her. After leading him to the bathroom, she went into her room next door and opened the drawer that Greg had started using. "I don't think he'd mind if I borrowed this" she said to herself. She made a quick stop back at the bathroom to drop the clothes off and went back downstairs to wait for John to come home.

John had stayed out longer than he had since he moved in with Molly. In fact, the last time he had stayed out that late had been the last time he and Sherlock had been working a case. He had wandered around aimlessly for hours, killing time and just thinking. He wasn't exactly sure what he was setting out to do or where he was headed, but he just knew that he didn't want to go back to Molly's. At least not yet.

There were things weighing on his mind that he did not bring up to anyone, things he wanted to discuss but couldn't find it in himself to speak to anyone. He felt lost, helpless really. He didn't want to speak to Ella about any of this because she would just try to analyse every little thing and try to rationalize it. And he didn't speak to Molly or Lestrade because he knew that they talked about him amongst themselves, and he couldn't deal with the pitying and worried glances in his direction.

The dreams had come back. They were the same yet altogether different. They all started the same and ended the same; with Sherlock jumping off the building and John screaming his name. That never varied. It was the inbetweens though that differentiated. In some instances Sherlock was trying to tell him something, something important. A secret. And in others, Moriarty laughed and waved his arms like a conductor, enjoying the chaos he was causing. But in the end, John was always too late to catch him, and he always shattered on the grey pavement, blood pooling around his perfect pale face.

But those dreams had been coming for a while now. What had really pushed him over the edge that day, was the fact that he could've sworn he had seen Sherlock. Not up close, but for a split second he saw him in the tree line of the park. And when he went back downstairs...the footprints. They were too real to ignore. Of course that could have been from anyone; maybe it was John's subconscious willing it to be Sherlock or something along those lines. Whatever it was, John went along with it.

After wandering for a few hours, he found himself outside of Sarah's flat. He rang the buzzer and waited until she answered with "hello? Is it the takeaway?"

"Um, no" his voice cracked and he cleared his throat before continuing. "Its John."

There was staticy silence before she spoke again, this time reserved. "Oh John. What brings you by? Is everything okay?"

It was cold outside, the air slightly damp with the promise of rain to come. He shivered as he said "Um, well I was wondering if I could possibly come in. Or if you wanted to go out for a bit. Either way, I'd love to get extraordinarily pissed."

No response for a few seconds that seemed to drag on endlessly before a sharp buzz signaled him to come up. After walking up 4 flights of stairs (he had forgotten the lift had been broken for quite some time and never been fixed) he arrived out of breath in her doorway. He didn't even need to knock, she left the door open a crack for him. He pushed it gently and it swung open to reveal Sarah carrying a basket of laundry to the sofa.

"Just close the door behind you John, the building has cats running around. I don't want them to get in." He shut the door and then looked around awkwardly, unsure of where to position himself. He made his way unsteadily to the chair opposite the sofa and sat down, watching her fold some shirts.

She spoke without looking up at him. "So what can I do for you John?"

"Nothing. I was just out and thought of you. How've you been?"

"Me? Well, overworked and underpaid, but I can't really complain. We had to lay off some people at the clinic due to funds so of course money is tight. I'm lucky I even have the job." She began folding another shirt. "What about you John? How are you doing?"

He thought about lying to her, telling her that he was doing fine and getting along in life, but something stopped him from doing it. He didn't want to put on a face for everyone anymore, didn't want to pretend. So instead he told her the truth about everything.

"And well...I'm miserable. I can't stop blaming myself for this. If I hadn't of believed that call, if I hadn't of left him alone..." his head fell into his hands at the thought. "If I had snowshoe stopped him from jumping. Or if I had ran faster and caught him. If I had done SOMETHING different, he would be here, and I wouldn't feel so damn helpless."

Sarah nodded solemnly. "I'll let you in on a secret. I know why you're so put out by this. Because it's been almost 2 years and you're still having a hard time trying to adjust. You loved him. You still do in fact."

"Well of course I loved him. He's my best friend. Was my best friend." And more quietly to himself "will always be my best friend."

Sarah shook her head impatiently. "No no no, obviously you loved him because of that. But I mean love love. I mean what I had once felt for you a lifetime ago. Of course you love him because he's your best friend, but he also somehow completed you. He made you whole when you were scarred from war, and you completed him too."

John stayed silent, pondering what it was Sarah was saying. Part of him went into denial mode, rejecting what it was she was saying to him, but a small part of him, just a sliver took it into consideration and begrudgingly agreed. He chose to take the denial side though and argue.

"What are you talking about? I don't understand where this is coming from."

"No John, think about it. There's a reason why you and I didn't work, and believe me, I really wanted it to work. But you were always...emotionally unavailable. Even when you were with me, you weren't. Someone else always had your attention. Do you know who that person is John?"

John remained silent. He didn't want to answer the question because a part of him knew the answer and he didn't want to acknowledge it. Sarah finally looked up from folding and gave John a small, sad smile.

"Its the person you've sacrificed yourself for time and time again. You would do anything for him." John refused to meet her eyes. "Come on John, just except it. Sherlock takes precedence over anything and everything. There's nothing wrong with that at all. In fact, I'm jealous that you've found someone who you care about so strongly. God knows I'm searching. Been searching for that for a while now."

John shook his head still trying to ignore what she said. "No. No. No, he's my best friend. That's it. It's never been anything more than that." He stopped talking but his mind went into overdrive. All the late nights together working on cases, the cups of tea, the way John would feel Sherlock's stare on him sometimes while John was looking somewhere else. The way John's heart contracted painfully when he was reminded of Sherlock. The way he seemed to be finding Sherlock in random things...in the taxis, when he passed a woman wearing pink. And he would always hear the violin in complete silence.

"Impossible" he whispered to himself, his eyes wide.

"It seems that way yes, but there's no denying it John" Sarah said softly. "There was never any question."

John just shut his eyes and tried to shut his mind down as well. He had never entertained thoughts of Sherlock in that way. EVER. But for some reason now he saw it from Sarah's perspective. In fact he saw it from everybody's perspective. He did love Sherlock, there was never any question about it. But maybe there was a deeper, more intense level of love for him that he was unaware of until Sarah had pointed it out. Perhaps that's why Molly and Mrs. Hudson were so careful around him. Because they apparently could see what John had been missing for so long.


	4. An Almost Encounter

John made his way slowly home in the darkness, avoiding streetlamps and mulling things over in his mind. He still couldn't believe that the fact that he was in love with Sherlock had managed to go completely under his radar. He was the one out of the two of them that was more in touch with his emotions. So how did he not see it? Of course his first instinct had been to deny it when Sarah had told him. Not because there was anything wrong with being in love with someone of your own sex; he had been overjoyed when Harry and Clara had gotten together and as the brother was very involved and supportive of the rights. More like he could never see himself in love with Sherlock. He did love Sherlock of course, he was his best friend and would gladly give his life for him, as he had almost done on multiple occasions.

He crossed the street and made his way to the door, still not completely paying attention. If his mind had been clear, he would've seen a tall, thin, dark shape dart into a room off the right side of the hall, the door shutting softly with a click. If his mind had been clear, he would have noticed Molly skidding to a stop in front of the door, a nervous look on her face and carrying a wad of worn and rugged clothes. And if his mind had been clear, he would have noticed a blue scarf hanging just inside the doorway, a scarf that he had seen for years in his nightmares. But John's mind was not clear. It was foggy and busy rationalizing his emotions and behaviours. He side-stepped Molly in the hall, brushing past her and heading up the narrow staircase towards the bathroom.

He showered quickly, hoping to put his newest realization far from his mind and hope to never revisit it again. It would hurt him on a wholly new level of complication for him to have loved him and lost him the way he did. After dressing fast he went back down the stairs and sat in his chair, waiting for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to arrive. Molly peered in the room, her face visibly tired and stretched with worry. She said nothing, merely looked at him for a few long moments. Her mobile trilled and she looked down at it in alarm.

John had not been paying attention to her, and did not look up at her when her mobile went off. She cleared her throat until he lifted his gaze from his lap to her face. "John, could you please go to the kitchen and ring Mrs. Hudson. See what's taking her?" He nodded and lifted himself slowly from his chair, walking to the kitchen and dialing slowly. It just rang through, almost as if she had left it off the hook. He sighed and tried his old next door neighbour to see where she went. After a brief and awkward conversation and the promise that if she was seen she would call back straight away, John hung up the phone and made his way slowly back to his chair.

While he had been gone, Molly raced to the small coat closet in the hall, reaching in and grabbing Sherlock's arm. "Out out out out get out!" She whispered forcefully. She pushed him from behind and grabbed his scarf on the way out, opening the door and ushering him through it. He paused on the threshold, looking back down the hall towards the kitchen wistfully. He had only seen John for a split second, shorter really, but his heart tore into a thousand flaming pieces a thousand times over in that small fraction of a moment.

Admittedly, he pondered not getting out in time, allowing John to see him. But he knew that once John saw him he wouldn't have the strength to leave him ever again and that would not be ideal. At the last second he ducked out, his heart heavy with longing, sadness, and regret.

Molly shut the door behind them and walked briskly alongside of him down the street and around the corner. They waited in the shadows of a tall building, Molly making impatient sounds the entire time. He looked at her and examined the stress in her face.

"Molly..." She looked up at him. "I'm sorry for this." She waved her hand as a dismissal, her way of saying she was fine. "I'm sorry for the stress this has caused you. I wouldn't wish this on you at all if I had a choice." She gave him a weary smile. "I know Sherlock."

* * *

John sat in his chair in the dim room watching the clock move forward. He had sat there since the phone call with the feeling that something big had happened and that he had missed it. Molly came bounding in after shutting the door and there was a look of exhausted relief on her face.

She had stood in the dark with Sherlock for 10 minutes, neither of them speaking really until a black towncar pulled up silently on front of them. The driver got out, tipped his hat to Molly and opened the door for Sherlock who promptly slid in and shut the door. The two made eye contact one last time before the car pulled away from the curb, but there was a lifetime of sadness and apologies in that last look that didn't need to be said.

Molly watched the car round the corner and disappear and stayed there, leaning against the building in the shadows for a couple more minutes, letting her mind stop spinning and her pulse slow before she jogged back to the front door of her flat. She was exhausted and drained and wanted nothing more than to skip the meal, and so with a quick explanation to John, "oh John, I've started my cycle and the cramps are too intense...I'm going to make a cuppa and take a hot bath and go to bed," she went up the stairs and collapsed on her bed, sleep coming to her as soon as her head hit the pillow.


	5. A Family Reunion

**Hi guys. Okay for those of you even bothering to read this chapter, I know it's been a while i just finished my 2nd semester of college and have just been so exhausted and overwhelmed. I'm not too ecstatic about this chapter but I needed a bridge to the next one, so if anyone wants to leave me a review and tell me what you think would make it better, i'd greatly appreciate it**

* * *

Sherlock leaned back in the seat of the black towns-car and shut his eyes. The car jolted slightly as it went over the bump, but other than that it drove smoothly and effortlessly and he was able to put his attention to the thoughts running through his head.

John.

Nothing more than that. Just John. Molly did make a brief appearance in his mind, but he knew that no matter what happened, Molly would help him. He had no fears of losing her. No, what he feared instead was losing the one person who truly mattered to him.

He'd caught that brief look at him while rushing out the doorway, but he felt that he had lived a lifetime in those moments. He was suddenly aged and weary and exhausted and felt his stamina deplete. He just wanted the car to stop moving and stay still for a while so he could rest himself.

The car rolled to a smooth stop and the door farthest from Sherlock opened up suddenly. He knew who it was without looking, could envision the black umbrella that always accompanied Mycroft wherever he went. He felt Mycroft beside him, could hear him tapping away on his phone. The silence in the car grew to what, to normal people's standards would be uncomfortable, but for the Holmes brothers was normal, if not preferred.

The car started up again, and Sherlock turned to look out the window, watching trees fly by his window, illuminated by the headlights. It was Mycroft that spoke first breaking the silence.

"How was your trip? Any problems?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away, instead taking his time to find words to say. "It was fine. No problems." He didn't feel like telling Mycroft about the slight...inconvenience he had as he was boarding a small charter plane in South Africa. He had been so anxious about finally coming back he hadn't checked to make sure he was secure and on the plane, the only other person there was a woman who was sitting diagonally behind him. She stood up to move to the side, pulling a knife on him, and he had broken her arm disarming her.

But that was more than he wanted to share with Mycroft.

Mycroft just nodded disinterested. "And how about your transition back?" Sherlock remembered himself standing outside of John's therapist's office in the forest, hidden by the trees. He remembered sitting at the table with Molly, hearing her recount John's downward spiral and the pain he felt as he hid himself in the closet and watched John limp his way past down the hallway.

"It was fine. Everything's fine Mycroft." Sherlock was starting to feel uncomfortable. He didn't want Mycroft asking him these questions, especially considering the way their relationship had always been. He inwardly cringed when he heard Mycroft take a deep breath, readying himself to go off on some spiel that he didn't want to hear.

"Sherlock, there's something I need to say."

Sherlock looked out the window, not wanting to see Mycroft's face. "Then say it. I'm not stopping you."  
Mycroft cleared his throat before saying "I'm...sorry." He seemed to choke out the last word. He paused  
slightly before continuing. "Everything, all this" referring to the events that had transpired since he had Moriarty in his custody "could have been avoided. I was desperate for information and I'm sorry I betrayed you like that."

To say Sherlock was stunned was an understatement though he didn't show it. In fact, he didn't even acknowledge Mycroft's words. He was already feeling new things he had never felt before- the pain and angst he felt because of John, the guilt and regret he felt because of Molly. As far back as Sherlock remembered, and he remembered essentially everything, Mycroft had never shown remorse for anything, be it stealing his toy truck when he was 8 and breaking it, or constantly interfering in his life.

Emotionally Sherlock was raw and didn't want to deal with this right now. He turned his head slightly to look at Mycroft and saw him looking dejected, waiting for Sherlock to acknowledge his words. He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. Mycroft looked relieved and sank back into the seat of the car, pulling his phone out and reading his emails. If anyone were to look at the scene in the back of the car, they'd see the Holmes brothers as they always were. But Sherlock could feel the change in the air between them, the tension seeming to have dissolved some, but not completely.

Perhaps things would get earlier between them. If not, Sherlock would always remember this moment in the car, driving silently into the dark.


	6. Life Would Be An Awfully Big Adventure

That night, John laid in bed, tossing and turning for hours upon hours. He looked up at the ceiling, the only light in his room coming from the moonlight that shone through the curtains he had left drawn. He sighed, trying to will his brain to stop chasing thoughts around his head and let him sleep. Instead, his mind created scenes of him and Sherlock together, in the flat, working on cases...the last day with him.  
_No_, he inwardly cringed. _Anything but that_. He sat up and turned on the bedside lamp, blinking as his eyes burned from the harsh light that filled the room. He opened the drawer of the nightstand to pull out the sleeping pills he had been prescribed, but instead found his hand hovering over the handgun he kept there at all times. His breath stopped as he ran his finger over it, feeling his heart stall for a moment before picking up double-time. He closed his eyes as he picked it up, appreciating the heaviness of it as he became light headed from not breathing.

Sometimes, although he would never admit it to Molly or Mrs. Hudson or Ella for that matter, he would stay up until the early hours of the morning clutching the gun in his hand, fantasizing about putting it to his temple and ending it all. But he would never bring himself to do it, there was too much he would be leaving behind for him to go through with it. Harry had just recently stopped drinking and seemed to be doing well, and if John were to be gone, he knew she would spiral back the way she had when their parents died. Molly and Lestrade tried so hard to bring the light back in his life, and Mrs. Hudson had adopted the role of his mother, essentially nursing him back from the dead.

So he would only fantasize about it, never do it. There was just too much at stake.

Instead he placed the gun back in the drawer and picked up the pills, shaking 2 out and swallowing them dry. It burned all the way down, getting stuck in his throat and causing him to cough violently for a few minutes. Exhaustion plagued him and he laid down again, shutting of the lights and turning to face the open window, letting the moonlight fall in squares on his bedspread. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and sleep took over him, his breathing turning slow and even, his face and limbs relaxing. The pills always did this to him. He considered them an escape from his reality.

* * *

The next morning he woke up feeling peaceful and rested. He stood up slowly and walked to the window, his hand resting lightly on the window frame and he watched people walking about the sidewalks and cars driving slowly down the street. The sun was out breaking through some clouds and it was warmer than he would have thought possible in London. He glanced at the clock and saw he had slept past noon. He made his way to the bathroom to shower and change his clothes and 20 minutes later found himself closing the front door of the flat and walking onto the sidewalk.

He had no real destination in mind, just wandered around instead observing the people in the taxis driving past and the people walking around him on the sidewalk. When he passed the park he stopped for a few minutes to watch a basketball game and a few children kicking around a football. He leaned against a tall oak tree in the shade, taking the weight off of his foot and pretending that he was just a normal man living a normal life.

Hours later he found himself standing across the street, staring at St. Barts. He didn't know how he ended up there or why, but he knew that he was frozen, his eyes glued to the roof. He didn't have to go across the street to know that there was a large brown stain in the grey concrete of the sidewalk. He'd been seeing it since that day in his nightmares, the images haunting him and refusing to leave him. His head bowed as sadness overtook him and he tried to shut his emotions down, not wanting to unravel right then and there.

That hadn't been the first time he had been back to St. Barts. He had come back a few months after_ it_ had happened, at the insistence of Ella and Mrs. Hudson.

"John, you need to go back to it, back to where it happened. It will help you move on with your life." Ella continued making notes on her legal pad while John waged a war with himself.

He heard the same thing from Mrs. Hudson when he returned home. "John dear, I think that therapist of yours is absolutely right." She brought him a cup of hot tea while he sat moping in his chair. She sat across from him holding her own cup and taking a sip.

"Mrs. Hudson, I don't see how going back to St. Barts is going to help me at all."

"Well love, just revisiting it will help you in the long run. Eventually you're going to hve to go back. You can't avoid it forever."

He thought about it, mulling it over in his mind. He knew logically she was right. Eventually he would find himself back there for one reason or another, be it for something for Lestrade or to get something for Mrs. Hudson. The last thing he needed was to have an anxiety attack. Mrs. Hudson didn't wait for his response.

"Tomorrow you'll take lunch for Molly. God only knows that girl works too much and doesn't eat enough."

"Like Sherlock" John said softly, more for himself than for anyone else.

Mrs. Hudson looked at him sympathetically. "Yes, in some regards she is. But she's so different from him too. I think we all have a little bit of Sherlock in us."

John sat there thinking of what she said, long after he heard her get up and place her cup in the sink and leave the flat. The sky outside grew dark and the air grew cold, and yet he sat in the chair thinking. There was a truth to what she said. There was a little Sherlock in everyone that knew him. He just wasn't sure what parts of Sherlock were in him.

The next day he found himself walking slowly, cane in one hand and bag lunch for Molly in the other. He stopped dead in his tracks across the street, looking up at the same spot on the roof that Sherlock had stood. Had jumped from. His breathing became ragged and came too fast, making him get dizzy. His heart sped up and he felt the urge to sit down. He dialed Molly, getting impatient as it rang out and leaving a short, hurried message for her telling her he was outside across the street. He placed his head between his knees and took deep breaths, trying to ease the churning in his stomach.

He felt a body sit next to him on the curb, felt an arm curl around him almost protectively, stroking his back. Molly pulled him close and whispered calming words to him that he didn't quite pay attention to, his mind swimming with images and thoughts and trying to calm himself. Eventually he got up off the floor and walked back home to 221B Baker Street slowly, letting himself into the flat and collapsing on the sofa without eating.

* * *

That had been the first and last time that John had gone back. He avoided going anywhere near it if he absolutely had to, and the times where he could not avoid it, he walked hurriedly past, his eyes cast downward, focusing all his energy into something else until he was a block or two away and could look up again, letting out the breath he didn't remember holding.

Until today. Today, he felt awkward standing across the street looking at the building. He felt himself move into the street, eyes glued on the spot. Before he could put together a coherent thought, he found himself standing directly below. On the ground, a large brown spot. He knelt down and placed his hand there on the spot, his fingers tingling.

Suddenly it didn't hurt him anymore. He didn't see the sidewalk as the place where Sherlock ended it all. He stood up slowly, placing his hand into his jeans pocket and blinked a few times. He knew he had overcome something big today, had most definitely made progress in healing. He knew one day he would be able to walk by St. Barts and not flinch when he saw how tall the building was, or how much it must have hurt on impact. One day he'd be able to stand on the roof of a building without feeling an aching loss spread through him.

One day, he'd be able to live again.


End file.
